Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [12]
Ah. There were some kids up there who were afraid of cats.
But no one answered her call. No leaves in the tree shook. He took a couple steps forward and for the first time noticed the magnificence of her backyard.
At first glance, it looked almost random. But upon closer inspection, he realized there was nothing arbitrary about it. It was more like a precisely arranged orchestra, with wildflowers in the front where the strings go. Tall grasses in place of the woodwinds. Shrubs in lieu of brass. Vine-covered fences for percussion. And midsized trees interspersed throughout. At the edge of the property, three giant shade trees provided a backdrop.
She stepped toward the elderberry, rested the broom against its trunk, then stuck two little fingers in her mouth.
Cheeeeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet. Cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet.
His mouth slackened. Her whistle was strong, loud, and sounded exactly like some bird he’d heard a million times. He had no idea which bird it was. Wouldn’t know it if he saw it. But he’d sure heard it sing like that. Plenty of times.
She did it again, and lo and behold, if something didn’t answer her back. His gaze flew to the branches of the tree but saw nothing.
Laughing, she propped her hands against her waist, arched her back, and lifted her chin. A breeze wafted the hair that had come loose.
“Don’t you worry, handsome,” she said. “I’ve chased that mean ol’ cat away. You’re safe now.”
“Well,” Luke drawled. “I’m mighty relieved to know that. Thank you.”
Squeaking, she spun around. A bird darted from the elderberry, but he didn’t look. No longer cared which bird made that noise.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she breathed.
He settled his hat on his head. “Weren’t you?”
“No.” She stood in a patch of autumn sage, its rich red blooms forming a three-foot hedge around her.
He sauntered closer. “You must be Miss Gail.”
“That’s right. Who’re you?”
“Luke Palmer. The new troubleman.”
“Oh!” She jumped forward, skirting the sage bush, brushing her skirt, tucking in her blouse. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I . . .” Sighing, she stopped. “Hello.”
He tugged his hat. “Hello.”
“Welcome to Brenham.”
“Thank you.”
Her eyes were green. He’d seen hazel before—a bit of blue with a bit of green. But these were all-out green like a Scandinavian goddess’s, except she was no bigger than a mite. She had all the requisite curves, though.
“When did you get to town?” she asked.
“Just rode in.”
She clasped her hands. “Oh my. Just in. Are you hungry? Have you had your dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am. Had it on the trail.”
“Well. I see. Good.” Swallowing, she made no move to invite him in. Just stood there wringing her hands.
He glanced at the yard. “Nice garden.”
She turned toward it, showing him her profile. Smooth forehead. Small nose. Full lips. Defined chin. Long neck.
“Do you think so?”
It took him a second. The garden. “Yes, I do.”
Everything about her softened. “I hope the birds think so, too.”
In a flash, his subconscious brought forth items he’d seen, but not noticed. Birdbaths. Bird feeders. And a birdhouse made from an old starch box. “I’m sure they will.”
She turned back to him and smiled. He blinked. She was pretty before, but when she smiled her whole face lit, especially her eyes. Multiple laugh lines framed her mouth. Straight white teeth peeked out. And a teeny brown mole to the left of her lower lip quivered.
“Well, we’d best get inside, Mr. Palmer, so I can show you where everything is. After the lunchtime lull, folks will be ready for some neighborly visiting, and every line on the board will drop.” She swept past him, her hips offering a suggestion of sway.
It must be mental, whatever kept her from being married. Because there sure wasn’t a thing wrong with the way that gal was put together.
Removing his hat, he followed her through the back door.
Chapter Four
“Your first priority is stringing lines onto the new telephone poles.